


wor·ship

by Funkspiel



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sunburn, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 16:03:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Funkspiel/pseuds/Funkspiel
Summary: Credence did not know if there was a God...Because if there was, his God did not love him as much as Mr. Graves. His God left him in a home that beat him, to the whims of a woman who hated him, to wail beneath the belt that could not feel him but he couldn’t not feel, and never showed him how special he could be. How much more he could be. Let him think he was but a unloved boy in a house of many unloved children, made only to spread the word of a loving God that did not love him.Not like Mr. Graves.





	wor·ship

It was a rare occasion indeed that Credence got the chance to take care of Mr. Graves. The man was unstoppable - his drive unquenchable. Exhaustion did not seem to slow him, stress did not seem to hold him back. He didn’t get sick, he didn’t take breaks. He was an immovable force, and Credence couldn’t help but feel like the trembling roots of a fragile flower in comparison to the churning, wild forces of Mr. Graves’ presence - more a storm than a man, more a hurricane than a wizard, more a force of nature than a normal human being.

It was rare that Credence got to take care of Mr. Graves. Tiny, flickering moments where he catches the man so tired that he’s plunked himself down in the great, plush armchair in his study by the fire. So tired that Credence could gently unlace the man’s shoes for him without much struggle. So tired that he might only bite his lip as Credence pressed the hard bones of his knuckles into the aching softness of Mr. Graves’ tender feet. But even then, it lasted but a moment. A moment of weakness, Mr. Graves might call it; because after the life Credence has had, Mr. Graves rarely allowed the boy to cater to him.

“You’ve served beneath the cruelty of a wicked woman for all your days, dear boy,” he said to him the first time Credence knelt before him and tried to rub his feet - stopping him. “This house is your home, not your prison. You owe me no such kindness. You need never kneel for me.”

“What if I want to?” Credence asked.

Mr. Graves just hummed as he leaned forward - elbows braced on his knees - and cradled the face of the young man kneeling at the foot of his chair. 

“Another day, perhaps.”

But another day did not come the next day or week or month. Mr. Graves did not like to take.

But to give,  _ oh how he gave _ .

He gave so much, and sometimes - when Credence was alone in the bed that Mr. Graves provided for him, swaddled in the blankets he bought him, wearing the clothing he paid for, full from the meal he made by hand, and sleepy from the gentle conversation he offered - Credence couldn’t help but guiltily wonder if there  _ was  _ a God.

Because if there was, his God did not love him as much as Mr. Graves. His God left him in a home that beat him, to the whims of a woman who hated him, to wail beneath the belt that could not feel him  _ but he couldn’t not feel _ , and never showed him how special he could be. How much more he could be. Let him think he was but a unloved boy in a house of many unloved children, made only to spread the word of a loving God that did not love him.

Not like Mr. Graves. Mr. Graves who showed him magic without fear in his eyes. Mr. Graves who rubbed the tension from his shoulders after another night spent on the floor because Credence was still not used to the rich plushness of his bed. And Mr. Graves never faulted him for that, either. Never scolded him for not using the expensive gift he gave him. Just bought him a thin mat for the floor that could slide out from under his bed, for the nights he couldn’t sleep on the mattress.

“Just to keep you a little warmer and away from the dust,” Mr. Graves informed him gently as he showed it to him. “If you need it.”

But for all he gave, he never took; and Credence ached from not being able to reciprocate. He wanted to rub the pain from the man’s feet after a long day of work. He wanted to cook him a lush meal that he didn’t know how to make, and he wanted to bring him a decanter of a rich drink before the fire, and he wanted to read stories aloud that might hush the man’s mind. He wanted to worship Mr. Graves, because that was what he was taught to do when the otherworldly loved you. Mr. Graves could move mountains. Mr. Graves could make the rain that fell from the sky, could heal wounds from his skin without a mark, could ease his mind to sleep. Mr. Graves put a roof over his head, food in his belly, and clothing onto his back - fulfilling the promises of a God that never heard his prayers. Unless Mr. Graves was in fact the answer to those prayers, in which case the man was a mere step from divinity - more an angel than a man - and deserving of Credence’s worship.

But how do you worship a man that will not take? 

Receive with gratefulness, Credence realized one night as Mr. Graves laid him gently into his own bed - larger by far than any bed Credence had ever experienced - and sucked him down with a mouth just as tender in its silence than when it had been praising Credence with loving words. Receive with abandon, Credence decided as he used his throat to bare witness to the glory of Mr. Graves’ hands - his moans a song of worship, his keens a symphony of thanks, his whimpers a plea of mercy, and his breath itself a litany of  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

And it worked. 

Because as with God, what kindness could Credence ever offer him that the man could not himself procure? He was too strong to need Credence’s affirmations. Too powerful to need what little strength Credence might offer. He was rich and he was healthy and he was confident. But just because he needed nothing did not mean Credence could offer nothing.

So he said thanks to Mr. Graves as he would to God; through worship. Worship through sound, worship through receiving without guilt or shame.

Until the day, that is, that he finally got the opportunity to deliver worship through skin.

Mr. Graves had taken him to the sea, to a place in Virginia where sand stretched as far as the eye could see, and beyond it a flat floor of rich blue that surely led to Heaven, as far and gorgeous and stretching as it was. The wind was heavy with salt and the smell of the water and the giggle of children just down the way. His ears roared with the gentle, constant symphony of the water’s rush, and the moment Credence saw it, felt it, heard it, smelt it - he fell to his knees, buried his fingers into the sand, and wept.

Mr. Graves was on his knees beside him in a second, sand no doubt rubbing his exposed knees raw as he grabbed the boy’s face, swept his tears away with his thumbs, and asked, “Credence? Credence, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“I’m happy,” Credence whimpered through a wet and trembling smile, afraid to say the words because if they were real -  _ if he was happy _ \- it meant they could be taken from him. But Mr. Graves, as he always did, gave him strength and courage. Mr. Graves gave him that happiness, gave him this moment. 

The world could take it all away, but it could never take away what Mr. Graves had done for him. 

“Good,” Mr. Graves said, “That’s good.”

They walked the beach until Credence felt his body ache in ways it had never ached when walking the city for miles, handing out pamphlets. But he didn’t want to lose the feel of sand giving beneath his toes or the gentle rush of water cleaning his skin anew, unheeding of the fact that it’d have to sweep more sand away not a second later. He didn’t want to lose the feel of Mr. Graves’ hand in his or the way his large thumb swept circles into his skin as they spoke gently over the hush of the sea. He didn’t want to leave the sandpipers as they played their silly game of chicken with the waves or say goodbye to the crabs that scuttled away from their feet.

This was the day that Credence learned of the beautiful wrath of the sea. Of its touch and its song and its cool rise and fall. It was also the day that he learned that even pale as he was, his skin was no stranger to the sun. Out for as long as they were, his skin blossomed into a faint beige rather than the rosy pink that Mr. Graves had been afraid of. Maybe that was thanks to the charms and lotions Mr. Graves had covered him in before stepping foot upon the beach.

But even so, that was also the day that Credence learned that Mr. Graves was Irish.

That Mr. Graves  _ could burn _ .

“You look miserable,” Credence offered softly from the doorway of their bathroom at the hotel, long fingers curled tentatively around the frame as he watched Mr. Graves slowly, gingerly took his sea-battered tank by its bottom hem and tried to pull it over his head. Every inch of fabric that rose revealed nothing by angry pink - although softer by far to the angry blush of his exposed shoulders, neck and forearms. Even the tops of his hands and fingers had an angry, rosy flush to them, and Credence couldn’t help but wince when the man had to hiss through his teeth to finish removing the blasted garment.

Beneath that flushed skin, muscles rippled as Mr. Graves then went about removing the rough canvas of his sand-quenched shorts, leaving nothing but a pair of simple undergarments and sun kissed legs behind, just as livid as the rest of him. When he finally turned to look at him, he did in fact look miserable. Eyes cloudy from the heat, and nose and cheeks so burnt he almost looked sick. Credence wanted to kiss away his frown. To pluck the heat from his skin and pepper it with apologies, because Mr. Graves would have never gotten burnt if he hadn’t taken off time from work to do  _ this _ for Credence’s birthday. 

“Don’t,” Mr. Graves said, suddenly in front of him, one awfully hot hand curled around the back of his neck. “I should have paid more attention to my charms. It’s been a long time since I was in the sun for so long, I had forgotten how susceptible to it I am.”

“Does it hurt?” Credence asked as he gently plucked Mr. Graves’ free hand from his side and dragged his fingers atop his burnt hand with a mere whisper of space between his finger and Mr. Graves’ skin, lest he touch him and cause him more pain. Even without touching him, Credence could feel the fire boiling in the man’s skin. Hot and pulsating and raging. 

“Mostly it’s just hot and stinging,” Mr. Graves said, smiling consolingly. “Tight. Nothing horrible, don’t worry.”

But it  _ was  _ horrible. Mr. Graves couldn’t sleep because of the heat in his skin, a fire there was no escape from. It didn’t matter how cold Credence tried to charm the room, it could not penetrate the rosy blush of Mr. Graves’ burns. And when he did manage to sleep, it was filled gentle, uncomfortable grunts and moans that Credence wouldn’t have caught if not for the fact that he himself could not sleep. There was nothing he could do to help but be there when Mr. Graves woke from an awkward shifting in his sleep, stinging skin ripping him from whatever small comfort dreams might have given him.

Credence waited until Mr. Graves managed to fall asleep again before slipping from their hotel room with a softly muttered renewal to the cooling charm he’d started. It was a simple matter to make his way to the front desk and ask the concierge if they had any remedies for sunburns. 

And thankfully, they did.

When he got back to the room, he smiled when he saw that Mr. Graves was still, thankfully, asleep. He cradled the little jar the concierge gave him between his hands as he quietly made his way back to bed, cautious not to stir the man as he sat atop the covers near him. Even from here, he thought he could feel the heat radiating off the poor man’s flushed skin. He nodded to himself, for confidence, before finally unscrewing the top to the jar and tipping it over the spread of his palm. 

Whatever it was, it oozed from its container slowly - the gel clear and smelling vaguely of plants and rain. He wondered just how effective this muggle remedy would be right up to the moment the gel finally parted ways with the jar in a large dollop, plopping onto his palm. He shivered, skin alight with the cold, refreshing kiss the remedy gave him. 

It was perfect.

He looked from his hand to the sleeping man before him one more time before steeling his nerves and moving forward to run his palm - and thus, the gel it cradled - down the length of Mr. Graves’ back. 

Hot and cold bled into his skin in a cacophony of sensations, and instantly Credence felt pity for the man as he realized firsthand just how smoldering his skin was. He tipped the jar again, eager to spread another swath of coolness across Mr. Graves’ aching back, when he realized the man had woken up - no doubt from the jarring change in temperature.

“Mm-Credence?” Mr. Graves asked, eyes squinted with sleepiness, and Credence felt his heart fall into a stutter because he had never once seen the man so vulnerable. Sleepy and confused and uncomfortable. Hair soft where it framed his face and fluttered into his vision. Credence sucked in a sharp breath.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Mr. Graves, I just thought--”

“--Please tell me you have more,” Mr. Graves said, and it nearly sounded like begging. 

“Oh! Yes, I do, just one moment!”

He slid another dollop of gel into his palm before reaching to spread it across the other side of his spine, from his shoulder all the way down to his lower back. Beneath his fingers, he felt the tough muscle of Graves’ flesh shudder under the press of his fingertips - featherlight, lest he hurt him. Mr. Graves groaned and his eyes fell shut, and Credence felt heat begin to rise in his own cheeks. 

“D-does that help?”

Mr. Graves just purred sleepily at him like a lazy cat, a slack openness to his face that Credence had never seen before - but he wanted to see more. Emboldened, he let his hands wander, spreading the cool jelly everywhere they went. Over the hard rolls of his shoulders. Across the wiry hairs on the back of his burnt neck. Down across the juts of his collarbones - or as much of them as Credence could reach, seeing as Mr. Graves was dozing on his belly. Along the length of his corded arms. Over the flat planes of his strong hands. The meat of his thighs, the slopes of his calves. All over, until he was glistening. 

Credence, for the first time, worshipped his savior not with his words or with his openness to receive gratefully, but with his hands. Finally, he repaid gratitude by returning pleasure and comfort and kindness onto Mr. Graves the way he had brought it onto him. Finally, he could nurse sounds of happiness from  _ his _ throat. Finally, he could give. 

Until Mr. Graves reached back to grab him gently by the wrist, that was. 

“C-Credence,” he said, and there was a spark behind his eyes now. A distinct  _ Mr. Graves-ness _ in his gaze. “We should probably stop.”

“What?” Credence asked. “Why? I thought--”

“I do like it,” Mr. Graves said, already five steps ahead of Credence’s line of thought. “I do. Too much, it would seem.”

Oh.

_ Oh. _

Credence gently pulled away and let his glistening hands fall into his lap. Silent as Mr. Graves caught his breath.

“But you give me pleasure… all the time, and I...” Credence finally trailed away.

Mr. Graves looked at him, and Credence felt naked beneath the molten darkness of his gaze.

“You deserve kindness,” Mr. Graves said.

“And you don’t?” Credence asked, a little more forcefully than he was expecting, but there was a fire beginning to burn in his belly - indignant on Mr. Graves’ behalf.

“That’s not the same, Credence. I don’t want you to do anything out of some false sense of obligation. You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you  _ everything _ ,” Credence cried, surprising even himself. “The roof over my head, the blanket that keeps me warm, the food that fills my belly, the lessons that help me control the-the-the  _ thing _ she let me become. I owe you  _ everything _ , Mr. Graves.”

And already he could see that it was not the answer Mr. Graves wanted to hear. Could see him pulling away, retreating behind his professionalism - but Credence was not done.

“I owe you everything, but that is not why I want to give you pleasure.”

Mr. Graves blinked, and it felt nice to have  _ him _ blinking owlishly at Credence for once.

“Then why?”

Credence felt a desperate little sob build in his throat, because surely such a smart man was not that dense? Was Credence simply crazy? He felt it. He felt a wild, crazed desperation rising in his veins as he shook his head and sputtered, “ _ Because I love you _ .”

Beneath his burn, Mr. Graves paled.

“I love you,” Credence said. “I love you and I want you to feel good too. I want you to feel taken care of. I want you to be able to  _ rest _ when you get home.  _ With me _ .” And finally, he sobbed on a dry breath, “I want you to rest peacefully with me.”

For a moment, Mr. Graves merely gaped at him like some great, burned fish and Credence had to rub his eyes with his bony wrists because his hands were still slick with gel. 

“You love me,” Mr. Graves breathed like it was a miracle, and Credence stilled from where he sat above him. He slowly lowered one wrist, afraid to look, but when he did all he found was awe and hope and fear - fear that Credence was lying.

Credence had been wrong, he realized.

Mr. Graves was fragile. Fragile beneath the strength he poured into everything and everyone around him, keeping nothing for himself. Fragile in the way he pushed people away, never taking, because you can’t miss what you never had. Fragile in the way he told himself he was taking advantage. Fragile in the way he told himself he was too old, too broken; not enough. Fragile as he writhed beneath his burns as he slowly, gingerly, turned onto his back so he might better see Credence.

Fragile and desperate to receive.

And oh, Credence had so much to give.

“I love you,” Credence said, forcing himself to be bold as he moved to straddle Mr. Graves’ lithe waist. “Of course I love you. How could I not?”

“I’m old, Credence. It’s easy to mistake gratitude for something more, and you don’t owe me--”

“Please don’t discredit my feelings by thinking I don’t know the difference between gratitude and love,” Credence said, “I’ve been looking for love all my life. I know exactly what its absence feels like, and that absence is gone. I’m so… so  _ full _ , Mr. Graves. I know exactly what I’m saying when I say I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Mr. Graves grabbed him by the hips, hands trembling.

“I’m sorry, Credence.”

“It’s okay,” Credence said with a shaky nod, then, “but now it’s my turn to show you pleasure.”

Mr. Graves opened his mouth to protest, brows crinkled with worry, but Credence was already stealing his protest away with his kisses - the last thing he’d take from Mr. Graves that night. 

He pressed two palms flat against the leaning weight of Mr. Graves’ pink chest and forced him gently back into the thin sheets, covers long since abandoned. He let gravity part their lips as Graves finally succumbed to the gentle give of the bed. Allowed himself to lay flat, because leaning on his elbows stung, and his shoulders ached and burned. Allowed Credence to lead, to give. Allowed himself to receive. Did nothing but watch as Credence took a deep, solidifying breath and reached down to take the hem of his shirt in hand and tug it up over his head and off, exposing the long milky line of his body.

And beneath him, Mr. Graves let loose a breath Credence knew all too intimately - a sound of disbelief in the face of something otherworldly - and Credence couldn’t help but flush, knowing he’d pulled that sound from Mr. Graves’ throat. 

He took one of Mr. Graves’ hands, his own shaking, and gently led it to the soft flatness of his belly, plumper now in thanks to him. Led that hand until Mr. Graves’ slack thumb caught on the waistband of his sleeping trousers and began to sink, taking the offending garment with it, exposing the sharp jut of his hip.

“It’s okay, Mr. Graves,” Credence said from above him, lashes thick against his cheekbones from watching their descending hands. “Let me love you. Let me love you as you’ve loved me.”

“Credence,” Mr. Graves said - whether it was a plea or a protest or a prayer, Credence didn’t know. Didn’t wait to find out. Instead, he swallowed, braced himself with every ounce of confidence he could claw up inside his hollow bones, and ground down against the heavy length he could feel slowly filling beneath his cheeks.

Credence rose and fell like the tide - once, twice - and on the third descent, he willed away the barrier that remained between them, divesting both of them of their pants and undergarments. His cheeks nestled down onto something firm and hot, and Credence felt a thrill shoot up his spine at the touch. Mr. Graves choked, a sharp sound lodged in his throat, and Credence smiled to give him strength. 

“You could live in a box, and I would love you,” Credence said as he rose up from Mr. Graves’ lap, making him whimper, and reached back to touch his entrance - something that had only ever been touched by Mr. Graves’ tongue and lips and fingers. “You could have nothing but a crust of molded bread, and I would love you. You could offer me nothing, and I would love you.”

And as his finger - slick from the concierge’s remedy - slid inside him, he sucked in a breath through his teeth. 

“Why?” Mr. Graves asked, his voice hushed, and within him his finger stilled.

“Because,” Credence said, “You saw me.”

Mr. Graves opened his mouth, baffled, but Credence tipped his hips so that the man might better see his hole as he slowly inserted a second finger and pried the two apart, stretching, making him keen, making Mr. Graves shudder.

“Credence,” he gasped, his voice more a rasp than the vocalization of a word or a name, and Credence smiled - proud. He ran a third finger along the red rim of his opening, back and forth, and enjoyed the way Mr. Graves’ eyes followed it until finally, that entered him too. 

Mr. Graves pressed his back into pillows and hissed - frustrated, burned,  _ burning _ \- and Credence withdrew his fingers in mercy. 

“You saw me,” he continued as he ran his gel slicked hands over the rigid, pulsing length of Mr. Graves’ cock - wetting him, lining him up, and below him, Mr. Graves braced himself like a man more prepared for death and than pleasure. And in a way, maybe this was death. Death of an old life they would both ascend from, together. He pressed the fat, angry head of Mr. Graves’ dick to his hole and paused. “All of me, and you loved me anyway. That is why I love you.”

And then he sank down, erasing any word or contradiction Mr. Graves’ might have had beneath the weight of his gift, his worship. Sank down, his body  _ giving _ and spreading and splitting, and felt a little thrill jet up his spine, through the network of his bones, and instantly he knew what they had been depriving one another of all this time in their quest to worship one another. 

Mr. Graves threw his head back, soft locks a sharp contrast to the hotel white of their pillows, and whined - thready and overwhelmed - like a man finally,  _ finally _ , drinking water for the first time in years. Beneath his sunburn, his skin flushed for an entirely different reason.

Credence gave Mr. Graves his body softly, so as not to disturb his burns. Merely seated himself upon the man and clenched - rhythmic and undulating and all consuming around the hot rod inside him - without ever once rubbing the poor man’s skin against or into the sheets. Just milked him, gentle and steady; Mr. Graves girthy enough to apply a constant pressing ache onto his prostate.

They found a way to worship each other together like that, soft and still as they came. Mouths open, the sound of their breathing a shared crescendo of bliss and awe - both so thankful to have the other. 

“When you’re better, we should do this again,” Credence said as he milked every last drop Mr. Graves had to offer up into himself, hot and filled. “But  _ more _ .”

“When I’m better, my boy, I’m going to bend you double and break this bed bringing you to completion,” Mr. Graves promised around the gasps Credence was pulling from him, his hands huge and tight where he held his hips.

And when they’d both settled and stilled, orgasm a wave that swept their bones clean and left them bare and shivering, Credence let Mr. Graves’ softening cock slip free and resisted the urge to touch, to cuddle, to pet. Resisted, because this had all been to take Mr. Graves’ mind  _ off _ the burning of his skin, not to add to it. Instead he laid down as close to the man as he could without touching, pillowed his head on the bend of his elbow, and watched him as he came back down to earth to settle back into the bones of his body, the burns of his flesh, the softness of their bed.

“Better?”

Mr. Graves chuckled, a flash of white teeth, and turned to look at him.

“Certainly took my mind off of things for a moment. Tired enough to sleep for sure,” he murmured, then leaned forward with a soft hiss to peck Credence’s lips chastely. “Thank you, my kind boy.”

And Credence preened, his skin aglow with the joy of giving. 

**Author's Note:**

> For the Gravebone "Guess Who?" challenge. Guess me? :)


End file.
